Sherlock's Last Stand
by Narcissa24601
Summary: Slightly AU. It's a normal day for Holmes until a mysterious client appears at the door... and suddenly Holmes and Watson are thrown into a bizarre case that will push Holmes to the limit emotionally, show Watson's criminal side, and much more! R&R!


**A/N: This one might take a little explanation. I had to write a story for my literature class a couple years ago that imitated Arthur Conan Doyle's style, and my teacher insisted that it had to be about Sherlock Holmes and that we couldn't make up our own detective. I was so irritated by this restraint on creativity that I decided to change Holmes' personality a little. The result: Fluffiness that I present to you now! Reviews are nice, no meanness, please! Thank you!**

**Disclaimer: *insert clever disclaimer here about how I don't own Sherlock Holmes... sigh***

I rapped sharply on the door to my friend Sherlock Holmes' apartment on that dreary, rainy April day of '95. Holmes opened the door looking rather irritable at first sight, but brightened considerably when he saw it was me who had come to call.

"Ah, hello, Watson, just the man I wanted to see!" he said happily. "Come inside; I have a client here with me right now and we could use your help. And pray tell, have you finished chronicling and embellishing our last adventure that concerned the engineer's thumb?"

"Yes," I answered truthfully.

"Capital!" he cried. "I do think those little stories might make an excellent addition to a publication someday. You do have prodigious language arts skills, my dear Watson. Perhaps try the _Strand_ magazine? How I do love reading that little periodical. And the cartoons in it are quite good as well. I am sure they would adore your little writings."

"You flatter me too much," I said, not without a hint of pride, for it was seldom Holmes gave me a compliment. "I am a doctor, not a writer."

"Ah, the sweetness of debate," philosophized Holmes. "But there is no time for it at the moment. Watson, if you would be kind enough to come inside, we shall listen to the extraordinary saga of Miss Cara Applegate." He turned on his heel and strode into his parlor. Naturally, I followed, having forgot about his client and wishing to hear her story.

Miss Cara Applegate was about five-and twenty years old. She was very pretty, with straight reddish- brown hair, piercing green eyes, and a smattering of freckles here and there around her nose. She was dressed very simply, but gave off a definite aura of grandeur nonetheless, possibly because of her diamonds and other gems draped round her neck as necklaces, and others worn as rings.

"Who is this?" she commanded Holmes imperiously. "I do not desire for common folk to listen to my conundrums. Send him away."

"No, no, my dear lady," Holmes soothed her. "This is my friend Watson, and you may speak freely in front of him as well as me. He will not betray your confidences, as neither will I. Now, pray relax, and begin your tale."

"Fine," said Miss Applegate.

Holmes smiled. "Then begin."

"I am a woman of wealth, as you can see from my beautiful gems adorning me, even though your and your colleague's eyes obviously are not fit to look at them." I was miffed and was from that point on firmly on my guard against this woman.

Sherlock Holmes tactfully ignored the last comment. "Go on."

"Yesterday I returned from a glorious trip to the Caribbean Sea on a dumpy ship. Oh, if you could have only seen it, Mr. Holmes! Crystal chandeliers! King size beds with polyester comforters! Complimentary eggs and toast at breakfast! For goodness sake, the place was a horror! Diamond chandeliers, snow-white, hand-plucked goose down comforters, and free caviar would have been more like it, and even then it would still need a bit of improvement. But the point is, on my trip, I met the Countess of Morcar, and bought her blue carbuncle, the most valuable gem in the world. I am sure you know all about the carbuncle, no?"

"Ah, yes. Watson, don't you remember that incident with the same carbuncle and that unfortunate goose?"

"Vividly," I replied.

"An interesting case that was," remarked Holmes.

"Uh-huh."

"So _anyway_," Miss Applegate continued, "I bought that carbuncle off of that Countess. She has no fashion sense! But anyway, I plopped that gem into my suitcase and headed back here to London.

"After I arrived home, I began unpacking my possessions that I had taken with me on the trip and put them away. As I did so, I could not repress the feeling that something was missing from my suitcase, something of great value.

"Presently, I had gone through everything, all was emptied from the suitcase and was folded neatly in my drawers, and still I had not discovered what was missing from my mind. As I walked down the hall and sat in my parlor for tea, I suddenly let out a piteous shriek, having remembered what was missing, and my servants came rushing in the room to see what was the matter. I suppose I must have fainted, for I remember nothing until I awoke some time later, and I was lying on my bed in a dressing gown. But I knew what I had screamed about; _the carbuncle was missing. _

"Now, gentlemen, this is the only gem that I have ever owned that was worthy of me, and naturally I was hysterical to find it gone. I do not know what has happened to it. I need it back, Mr. Holmes, and if you would, pray help me!"

"Miss Applegate," said Holmes, "I will definitely aid you in the quest to locate the carbuncle." He spoke with an unmistakable note of chivalry in his voice that I had never heard before, and I began to wonder if he was falling in love with Miss Applegate, as unconceivable as it was. But perhaps it was true; they both had rather large egos. They both seemed to appreciate fine things in life. Maybe, as had I, Holmes would marry and vacate his dreary Baker Street apartment that I shared with him for so many years, and then…

"WATSON!" yelled Holmes angrily, breaking my reverie. "Come and see our guest to the door!"

"My apologies, sir," said I, hustling out of my chair.

"Good-by, Miss Applegate," Holmes said. "I will see you to-morrow at your home at half past three, if that is convenient, to discuss the blue carbuncle."

"Certainly," said Miss Applegate. And without a further word she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Holmes made a very strange sound at that point from behind me, but then it dawned on me that he was laughing, and not having an epileptic fit.

"Well!" he wheezed. "She is officially London's most conceited person, except perhaps John Clay. And I think that I can claim third. But" -his demeanor instantly turned serious- "she is hiding something. The carbuncle is not the most valuable gem in the world; I have contributed to the literature of gems, and those particular diamonds she was wearing happen to be rather more valuable than the blue carbuncle, no matter how blue it is. She is obviously lying."

"My dear Holmes," I began, "you amaze me. But I heard you tell her that you would come to call at half past three on the morrow. If you do not trust her, why do you offer to help?"

"Because, Watson," Holmes said impatiently, "it is our duty to help whenever needed. I do not trust this young woman whatsoever, but I think that I will be all right for a short period of time. I would like to find out her real motives for having me come to her home. However, Watson, I do not want you to come."

"Not come!" I shouted.

"Lower your voice, please. I am a little deaf in my right ear, and you just made the deafness infinitely more so."

"But why must I stay behind?" I whined. I was acting rather infantile at this point, I am ashamed to say, but I was determined to go with Holmes.

"Watson, I have an idea of what she is planning to do, and if I am correct, _you must stay here._ If you come, it could mean losing our lives. But if you stay here, we can prevent any blood from being shed. I do not know if I am correct, but to be on the safe side, I do not want you accompanying me.

"Watson, pray follow these instructions I am about to give you. Go home and shut up your medical practice, putting a sign on the door that states you will be taking to-morrow as a holiday, and you will be back the day after. Tell your wife that you will be staying here to-night to help me with a case. She will understand. Then come back here.

"Stay here all day to-morrow and after I leave for Miss Applegate's, watch for a letter being slipped under the door. If it comes, open it. Do not follow the instructions that will most likely be there. Use the note itself and my methods instead. All will become clear in due course. I am trusting you with my life, Watson. _Do not fail me."_

I sputtered crudely, unable to find words.

"And now, Watson," Sherlock Holmes said, with a return to his usual manner, "why don't we grab a spot of supper, and then go to the theatre? I heard there is an excellent play going on this week."

I sputtered a little more and then managed to say, "Of course."

"Wonderful, my friend. Now, go home, tell your wife what I told you to tell her, shut up your practice, and then we shall have a bit of fun. It is a pity that we have not been able to engage in more extracurricular activities together since you moved out."

****

True to his word, Holmes treated me to supper and an evening at the theatre, but I could not very well enjoy it for puzzling over Holmes' curious statements and instructions which he had issued me. The theatre production was quite comical, but I could not laugh for thinking of how my dearest friend's life apparently was for me to save; likewise, the supper was delicious, but I could not eat for thinking of the mysterious letter that would come on the morrow.

When we returned to Baker Street, there was a blank envelope lying innocently on the table that had not been there when we had departed. Holmes evidently noticed it as well, for he picked up the envelope and surveyed it closely. It was addressed in neat, precise penmanship to _Mr. Sherlock Holmes, from Miss Penelope Pumpernickel._

"Who on earth is Penelope Pumpernickel?" I burst out laughing, for her surname was so ridiculous.

Holmes smiled, which was a rare occurrence for him. "My friend from university," he explained, and tore open the letter. "I certainly am surprised to hear from her; our contact since then has been negligible."

"Oh, just a friend?" I teased, for it was rare that I had an opportunity to make my serious and solemn friend laugh. "Might I suggest there was a little romance mixed in there somewhere? My, my, you certainly do burst with the unexpected, Holmes. And I thought you were so shallow all these years."

Holmes glared at me, but I thought I saw a fleeting expression on his face that told the truth; that my guess was not too far away from what had happened between him and Penelope Pumpernickel, but he quickly regained his composure.

"Watson, if you are going to write down this little adventure, pray, omit this section, for I do not think the public really would like to hear about my personal life when I was one and twenty. Plus, as I told you in the incident which you titled _The Sign of Four_, detection is, or ought to be, an exact science and should be treated as a cold and unemotional thing, not romantic. This really must be erased from my permanent records. "

"Oh, no, the public would simply adore it. Such scintillating events in the life of the world's most private and reserved sleuth! If Mr. Grimesby Roylott were still alive, it would show him that you are not just a 'Scotland Yard jack-in-office' after all! Your _Strand_ magazine would have suchfun with it."

"Let's read the letter, shall we?" suggested Holmes irritably, but I saw a twinkle in his normally expressionless dark eyes. A minute later, his expression turned to half amused to one of shock as he thrust the letter into my hands. "Read this, Watson."

Bemused, I unfolded the letter and began to read.

_Dear Mr. Holmes, _

_I hope you remember me, but if you do not, I would not be surprised, for it has been such a long time. We were good friends at university. I have missed you, but I will get to the point- __DO NOT GO TO CARA APPLEBY'S HOUSE TO-MORROW__. Her real name is Jasmine Ducky, and she works for Professor Moriarty. _MORIARTY IS STILL ALIVE AND IS HUNTING FOR YOU. HE DID NOT DIE IN THE FALL FROM THE CLIFF, AS WE ALL BELIEVED.

At this point in the proceedings, I screamed, "How can Moriarty still be alive? You watched him die, Holmes!"

"I thought I did," said Holmes grimly. "But continue reading."

_The whole blue carbuncle story is utterly false. She is trying to lure you to her home so Moriarty can kidnap you. __DO NOT__TRUST HER. _

_At this point, you may be doubting the legitimacy of this letter, but let me prove that I am speaking the honest truth. I know all of this classified information because I was influenced deeply by you when we were friends so long ago, and became a detective myself. Not many are willing to accept detective help from a woman sleuth, but nevertheless I still know all about Professor Moriarty and his wicked deeds. I have never laid eyes upon him to date, but I have run into Jasmine Ducky a few times in my career. Because I am not very well known or respected in my work, I can stay undercover. I saw Miss Ducky in London at the time that she told you that she had been in the Caribbean- that is also quite false. I tracked her down and have been watching her every move, including her visit to you- I was in the hall, listening through a crack in the door, but I made sure to leave before Miss Ducky did. I am sorry I invaded your privacy, but I wanted to help you. I also would have visited, but thought it might be unwise in the present situation. When all this is done and Moriarty is in prison, I will find you. _

_Sincerely yours,_

Penelope S. Pumpernickel

"Holmes!" I yelled. "Did you read this? You mustn't go to Miss Apple- I mean Ducky's- house to-morrow!"

"Of- of course I read it," stuttered Holmes. "W- Why do y-you think I gave it to you?"

"Holmes, are you feeling all right?" I was suddenly quite concerned for my friend's welfare, not least because he never ordinarily stuttered this badly.

"Yes, Watson, I am fine and in perfect health," he snapped, but his voice was slightly higher pitched than normal.

"Holmes, I am a medical man and you are feeling ill if I say you are. Lie down on the sofa and rest awhile." Holmes obeyed, and the only sound in the room for a minute was him shifting about in a futile attempt to get comfortable.

"Ah, that is better," said Holmes after a moment. "Thank you, Watson."

"You are most welcome."

There was an awkward pause that lingered in the air between us.

"Watson, I need to tell you something, but you will think I am mad after this-"

"Of course not!" I interrupted. "Why on earth would I think you were mad? You are the sanest person I have ever had the pleasure to meet!"

"You are very kind, but as I have said before, I really ought to make you sign a paper to that effect. You will say that I have gone mad."

"I will not say anything of the kind. But pray, tell me, what is it that you desire to communicate?"

"I still must go to Miss Jasmine Ducky's home to-morrow."

There was another deafening pause.

"Why, Holmes," I said in disbelief, "you_ have_ gone mad."

"Watson," Holmes sighed, "if this letter was truly written by Miss Pumpernickel and is not a fraud, it gives me all the more reason to go to the home of Miss Ducky, and in turn I can complete the case. I have heard of her before, for I have had more than a few scruples with Moriarty and his henchmen and women, but I have never actually met her. If I go, I can ensure that justice will be served and she will be imprisoned. This letter only confirms my hunches. I did not trust Miss Applegate from the time I first laid eyes on her, and immediately after her ludicrous tale I began to question her motives. I know Moriarty and his style. He has tried to kill me so many times that he must be running out of ideas on how best to do so. Using my own work to do me in was a brilliant maneuver on his part, but unluckily for him I was a step ahead."

"Holmes, you are brilliant," I said in awe, "but I must get off the subject and ask you something else. You were courting Penelope Pumpernickel, weren't you? "

Holmes began to laugh heartily. "My sincerest congratulations, my dear Watson! I think this is the first mystery that you have solved without my help. Well done! well done! I really should start giving you wages for your services."

"And also on this personal note, you were stuttering because it sounds from that letter that she still loves you, right?"

"You are perfectly correct."

I stared at him in utter disbelief, for all of a sudden Holmes was not the shallow, unromantic man I had always perceived him to be. "But you have always completely mistrusted and disliked the opposite sex!"

"Watson, I thought you had this figured out!"

"I am utterly bemused."

"_Watson_," Holmes said exasperatedly, "it is _because_ of her that I have mistrusted the opposite sex for as long as you have known me and longer!"

"You do not mean to tell me… wait, I have it! She broke your heart, did she not?"

"Watson, what a pathetically generic and old-fashioned term that is, but for the purposes of discussion, yes, I suppose she did."

"How?" I asked, although I was perfectly aware that it was an extremely personal question.

"I do not wish to go into details."

At this point, I chose to continue my former activity of staring at Holmes in total incredulity. "But you still love her, do you not? And she obviously still loves you."

"Watson, do shut up. What is over is over."

I insensitively continued to stare. Sherlock Holmes showing emotion was like a snake being able to tap-dance; just wrong, wrong, and wholly out of character.

Holmes frowned at me. "What are you gawking at me for? Manners, my friend. And now it is half-past ten, and we really should be getting to bed. Why don't you take your old suite of rooms upstairs? Nobody has moved in yet, and I kept the place the way you left it."

"Of course," I said. "Good-night, Holmes."

"Good-night, Watson. I am not tired, so I think I shall continue my research paper on those lovely little acetones for a while longer. I shall see you in the morning."

I hastened up the stairs to my former apartment. As I put on my nightclothes and lay down in my bed, I intended to meditate on the strange events of the day, but I could not as I quickly succumbed to the tranquility of sleep.

The next morning at seven o' clock, I awoke to Holmes screaming in my ear, "WATSON, WAKE UP!"

I groggily awoke to see Holmes standing with a smile at the foot of my bed. "Very, very sorry to knock you up, but the eggs and bacon are getting quite cold. And also, I would like you to read my paper on acetones."

"Holmes, I can never comprehend your writings. Pray, oblige me and do not use so many complex Latin phrases in your works."

"Come now, Watson, they are what make the paper enjoyable to read, and you as a doctor should know a smattering of Latin and Greek, so why are you making a fuss?"

I have always dealt with feelings of stupidity while working alongside my friend Sherlock Holmes, and this was no exception to the rule. I wished that somehow I could measure up to his brilliance and make swift deductive intuitions like him. True, there was my small triumph of the night before, but the clues were perfectly obvious. I had only solved one feeble case: The Adventure of Who Holmes Was Courting at University. Holmes had solved hundreds. Why could he do that and not I?

"Watson, you are not unintelligent in the least," insisted Holmes, reading, as he so often did, my thoughts. I could not think about anything intimate in front of him, for he would know full well the nature of my musings. "Now, do not sink into the quagmire of your despair, but rather get up, get dressed, and eat some breakfast, although heaven knows how cold that bacon is."

I did as he told me to, and the morning passed in an enjoyable manner, with both of us chatting amiably and munching on increasingly frigid bacon, eggs and toast. Before we knew it, it was half past two, and Holmes began to prepare for his journey to Jasmine Ducky's residence.

Needless to say, I was very worried about Holmes, for he was dealing with a sly and cunning criminal. I did not feel that it was safe for him to go unaccompanied to visit Miss Ducky, even though Sherlock Holmes had an extensive knowledge of karate and could also bend steel pokers into knots, a handy skill when dealing with criminals. Right then and there I made up my mind; I was going to follow him.

****

I waited until the door slammed shut on Holmes and his retreating footsteps had faded away, and then I sprang into action. I grabbed my coat, a magnifying glass, and my revolver, and then prepared to leave. Just as I reached for the doorknob, the letter Holmes had warned me about was slipped under the door.

I screamed in an embarrassingly feminine fashion and flung the door wide open, holding my pistol up toward the doorway, but nobody could be seen anywhere. I lowered my revolver, pocketed the letter and set off for the train station. Luckily for me, I had remembered to take a scrap of paper that had been lying on Holmes' table with Jasmine Ducky's address scrawled upon it. Her home was far out in the country, quite near the place where Henry Baskerville lived. I paid for my train ticket and hopped aboard.

Once comfortably seated upon the train, I spotted Sherlock Holmes making his way down the aisle, attempting to find a compartment. The only one that was not full up was mine, and of course Holmes could not find me here!

I wondered if there was a way that I could dart out like a fleeing hare before Holmes saw me. There was not, for his hand was already upon the glass compartment door. I quickly pulled my hat down in such a way that it obscured my face in shadow, and decided to use a false voice as well just as Holmes walked in.

"Pray, sir, may I sit here?" he asked deferentially.

"Well, _oui_, of course, sir! What ze pleasure to meet _vous_!" I cried a little too loudly in an obviously false French accent.

"It is a pleasure to meet you as well," said Holmes. "What is your name?"

"_Je m__'__appelle_ Jacques… er… Skeezeealps. Jacques Skeezeealps."

"That is an interesting surname, my dear sir. It distinctly shows that your ancestors loved to ski upon the French Alps."

"Oh, _oui. Tr__é__s bien, _sir! _Oui,_ zey loved zat skiing. _Oui_."

"Fascinating."

"_Merci._"

"You are most welcome."

"Oh, well, _oui_," I said. "By ze way, _comment-vous appelles vous? _I deed noot ask. Seely me._" _I was using my modicum of French vocabulary that I possessed to make my guise more realistic.

"Alfred Pufferoff," my friend lied promptly. I knew that he was reluctant, as was I, to have his true identity discovered, in case Jacques Skeezeealps recognized him as the well-known sleuthhound that he was and began prying into what case he was working on, and to Holmes' mind, there was the chance that Jacques Skeezeealps might be Moriarty in disguise.

"So, er… uh… have voo ever bean to ze Paree?" I ventured in a hopeless attempt to make conversation.

"No, actually, I have regrettably not."

"Ah, that ees too bad. You must go, Sheerlock!" I cried.

At this point, Holmes turned to really look at me, and a torrent of panic began to well up inside my heart. "You distinctly remind me of someone, Mr. Skeezeealps. Have we met before?"

"_Non_!" I yelled.

"Hmmm…"

"Well," I said, desperate to get off this subject that could easily give me away, "um… where are voo goink on zis vittle train to-day?"

"To visit my brother," Holmes lied.

"Oh, _oui!_ Have fun!" I said a little too heartily.

"_Merci beaucoup," _he thanked me. "I will. Ah, this is my stop."

"Mine too!" I screeched.

"Wonderful," he said, but I could tell, knowing him so well, that he was irritable at the prospect of spending any more time with the boisterous Frenchman whom I was currently impersonating.

We exited the train soon after, laden down with all our belongings, and hopped into different horse-drawn carriages.

"Where would you like to go, sir?"

"Er… to Henry Baskerville's estate." Holmes could not realize that I was following him, and if I went a slightly different route and lingered for a moment at a nearby location, it would throw Holmes off the scent.

I felt like a common criminal.

"Certainly," replied the driver. And we set off at a brisk pace.

It occurred to me that I should probably open the letters snatched from Holmes' table back in Baker Street, so I drew them out from my pocket. I decided to open the one labeled "Mr. Watson" first, for it was my letter, after all. It was written in scrawling handwriting, as though the person had been in a hurry to write it.

_Dear Mr. Watson (at least that is what I believe your name is,)_

_My name is Penelope Pumpernickel, and I am the writer of the letter that Mr. Holmes showed you. I have been observing you and Holmes, as you probably already know, because I want to protect you both from the terrible fate that awaits you in Professor Moriarty's hands. I watched him leave his home today and heard the conversation between you, and if I am not extremely mistaken, he is heading for Jasmine Ducky__'s__ home. Pray stop him! He must not go! Follow him and bring him back! He could be killed! _

_Also, if we are all alive by to-morrow, please tell Mr. Holmes that I will be coming to call at half past ten to-morrow. _

_Yours,_

Penelope S. Pumpernickel

The second letter was much more brief but much more sinister:

**GIVE US ONE THOUSAND POUNDS BY MIDNIGHT TONIGHT IN AN UNMARKED BAG FOR THE SAFE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. PUT IT IN FRONT OF CARA APPLEGATE'S HOUSE.**

My first instinct was, I am ashamed to say, to immediately return to London and draw out all my bank account savings and then use it to buy Holmes' freedom, but I knew better than that. Criminals like these would not give me back my friend if I gave them all the money in the world. So I decided to immediately change course.

"Excuse me, sir!" I called up to the driver. "Could we please go to the Ducky estate instead? I forgot that I must run an errand for Mr. Baskerville and it was picking up his wife's birthday present, but Mrs. Ducky picked it out and is keeping it at her house for me."

"Oh, yes, of course," the driver promised, and we sped off down a side road.

In no time at all, we had reached the Ducky estate, and what an estate it was! A towering, beautifully kept but antique-looking white manor house cast its shadow over the front lawn. The small, ramshackle cottages nearby looked even more hopeless and forlorn in the presence of such austere yet breathtaking architecture.

"Would you like to get off here?" the driver asked.

"Yes," I replied. I paid the driver and he and his horses sped off into the sunset. I was all alone.

I was about to go in the front way, but thought better of it when I realized that I was sure to be immediately discovered by a devoted servant who would certainly sound the alarm, or a criminal. I crept around to the back, but the only door was firmly locked and would not budge. There were many windows, however. Should I climb in one of them?

Before I could think better of my rash whim, I pushed with all of my might against the nearest window and it creaked slowly upward. Hurrah! I stuck my torso into the small opening and squirmed a bit until the rest of my body passed through. I landed with a large thump upon the brightly lit landing above a staircase, even though I thought that I had come in on the first floor.

"Did you hear that?" came a loud voice from below. People- likely criminals- were right below me! They were probably having a meeting!

"Naw. You gotta stop hearing them im-agi-nar-y noises, Ashworth. You know da boss don't like it no much, no-sir-ee he don't. Ole Moriarty hates dem im-ag-in-at-tions."

"No, I swear it! There is somebody up there!" cried Ashworth.

"Shut up, Ashworth!" cried the voice of a third. "If Moriarty catches you talking about imagination, we're all dead! Literally!"

"No! There is something u-" Ashworth cried, but then an audible sound of palm hitting flesh could be heard from below, and Ashworth did not say any more.

At this point, I heard a voice on my neck say, "I've been expecting you," and I jumped in fright, only barely containing myself from screaming aloud, for I thought that I had been caught and the game was up. But when I turned to look at the speaker, I reconsidered my thoughts.

She did not look like a criminal. She had long, frizzy red hair, warm brown eyes, and a kindly smile, but she had a very brisk demeanor that was not unlike that of Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello, my apologies if I scared you. My name is Penelope Pumpernickel; you must have read my letters to you and Mr. Holmes. Wait, you _are_ Watson, right?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Fantastic. Okay, here is the story. Sorry, but I don't really have much time; apparently one of Moriarty's henchmen is coming to get Mr. Holmes in an half-hour because they are going to decide what to do with him; that's what they're arguing about right now down there. But I need to fill you in. Holmes arrived here about five-and-ten minutes before you, and almost the minute he stepped inside, a servant saw him, alerted Jasmine Ducky, and she immediately had Professor Moriarty tie him up. The police are here as well, but they're waiting outdoors for Mr. Holmes to chase the criminals out of the house so they can capture them and take them to prison; they won't be much help. Holmes is in this room here"- she gestured to a locked door next to the window that I had came in from- "and he's bound, gagged, and everything else. But the one thing they forgot to do is leave someone with him to keep people out. So I broke in. I need your help, because his bindings are so strong that I can't undo them; all I could do was get in the room. Mr. Moriarty didn't realize that his locks can be picked with a hairpin and a little time. But a hairpin doesn't get through double-thick rope, and that's where you come in. You didn't bring a pocketknife, did you?"

I searched my pockets in vain hopes, but to my amazement, I did have a knife with me. "Yes, I do!" I cheered.

"Pray, keep your voice down!"

"My apologies, madam."

"I don't have time for formal apologies!" Miss Pumpernickel tore a hairpin out of her windswept hair, and started furiously picking the lock. Presently she wrenched it open, and we both hurried inside.

At this point, I was ruminating that I had never met anybody quite as blunt, self-sufficient, strong-willed, and yet likable as Miss Pumpernickel, especially not a woman. She was clearly born at the wrong time, for nobody I had ever come into contact with dared to be so rash. I could see why Holmes liked her so much... and then her voice broke my daydream.

"I found Mr. Watson outside," she whispered to Holmes. "Hello again, by the way."

Holmes made a muffled sound through his gag that sounded like a futile attempt at a greeting, but sounded more like "Salwutayshuff, Watsuff."

"He is trying to say "Salutations, Watson," translated Miss Pumpernickel. "Can you get your knife out, pray? We should hurry along." She snatched the pocketknife from my hand and began hacking at the ropes tying Holmes' legs together.

"Prooff, gov sluffuff! Voo might furt me!" screamed Holmes.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I did not mean to scare you," she reassured Holmes, smiling, and then turned to me. "Could you keep a watch outside and tell me what you hear? Then just come back inside when there are ten minutes left until they come to get Holmes and we can all slide out the window and run."

"Yes, of course," I agreed speedily, and slipped out the door, rather happy to leave the two alone, for I felt like I was intruding. I shut the door quietly and hid in the shadows of the stairway, ready to eavesdrop on the lawbreakers.

****

"No!" screamed a voice from downstairs; I recognized it as the man called Ashworth's. "We must kill Holmes now, or else he shall slip from our fingers yet again!"

"No, nitwit!" screamed Moriarty. "Do you want to have the police after us? We have to take him to another country where we cannot be caught before we harm one hair on his worthless head!"

"But, boss," protested another; I recognized him as the one who had told Ashworth to "stop im-a-gi-ning things." "If he so worthless, like, why da we a-care about a-him? I thought he was val-u-ble, like he was one of them, uh… de-tect-teeve thingermajiggers. Yah, a deer-tect-teeve. Ain't that what ya said, like? "

"Let us get one thing clear, Butterscotch," snarled Moriarty. "_Worthless_ is a figure of speech! I just use that to express the fact that I don't like him. Don't be so literal! And I hate the way you talk, for the record."

"Well, I think that Moriarty is absolutely riiiiighhhht," crooned Jasmine Ducky. "He is just so_ wise_."

"Pray, Miss Ducky, stop toying with my affections, for as I have told you, I do not love you and am not remotely interested in marriage with anyone." Then his voice became very soft, so I had to strain to hear it: "Except for perhaps with Miss Pumpernickel."

"Whadja say, boss?"

"Nothing!" cried Moriarty loudly. "Can we pray get back on topic?"

At this point, I sprinted into the room where Holmes and Miss Pumpernickel were. Miss Pumpernickel had removed Holmes' gag and his bindings. Both were sitting a rather innocent distance away from each other, but both were blushing very hard.

"Miss Pumpernickel," I gasped, "I was outside listening in to Moriarty and his henchmen and Moriarty accidentally let slip that he loves you!!!!"

Holmes and Miss Pumpernickel glanced knowingly at each other.

"Why don't you tell him?" suggested Holmes. "It is your fault, after all."

Miss Pumpernickel laughed. "Yes, I suppose it is my fault. Well, Mr. Watson, when Sherlock and I were young-"

"And foolish," added Holmes.

"Well, yes, but however, we were engaged to be married."

I stared at Holmes in disbelief for the fourth time in two days.

"So we had had this little tiny argument that I don't really remember the details of. And we blew it out of proportion, and argued for weeks, until finally I said enough and left Sherlock.

"Well, Moriarty had loved me a long while, so he immediately started courting me. I immediately began to see him for what he really was: a criminal. He was so violent that I tried to get away and go back to Sherlock, but he would not let me go. Finally he had me locked up, and after a year of pleading he finally let me free, for I complained so much that I was a very difficult hostage to deal with. By the time I was freed, Sherlock had moved to Baker Street and I was not able to trace him until recently."

I was utterly shocked. "So Moriarty's initial grudge against Holmes began because you were engaged to him and not Moriarty?!"

"Yes," confirmed Miss Pumpernickel.

"We need to leave," Holmes said. "By my watch, they will be here in five minutes to kill me."

"Let us not be morbid," chastised Miss Pumpernickel.

I rushed over to the window and pushed on it. "It is locked!"

"Quick, quick," urged Miss Pumpernickel, "the hallway window!"

The three of us ran out the door and we heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Holmes, you need to go out first!" I whispered loudly.

"No- I will not put you two in danger!"

"Then you two go together and I will follow!"

"Fine by me," contributed Miss Pumpernickel. She pushed open the window and grabbed Holmes' hand. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," he confirmed. They slid out the open window and I heard a small thud where they had hit the ground.

I saw the top of Moriarty's head coming up the staircase. In a frenzied panic, I fell out the window and landed hard on the cold grass below.

I scrambled out of the moonlight and into the bushes in the nick of time, for just then Moriarty's shadow appeared in the window, and his scream of rage never left him as Holmes, Penelope Pumpernickel, and I all scrambled out of the bushes and ran out of sight.

A brief word of epilogue. The marriage of Penelope Pumpernickel and Sherlock Holmes was celebrated a few weeks later, and Holmes finally vacated his Baker Street apartment. This little adventure is called Sherlock's Last Stand because Holmes now had a worthy partner in detective work, and they opened up a business together in it. So this was the last case of Sherlock Holmes as a semi-individual practitioner, because he did have me, but I am a doctor, not a sleuth, and was a bit useless, and so many happy days of working alongside his wife lay ahead for him.

A letter can change your life forever…

It's like any other day for Sherlock Holmes in the land of Helping Distressed Clients, until the mysterious Cara Applegate tells her unique tale of stolen gems and "dumpy" trips to the Caribbean. Suddenly the lovable but dim-witted Watson and the elusive and brainy Holmes are thrown into a world of criminals, busting into mansions, disguises, and encounters with long lost university girlfriends. Along the way, Holmes and Watson are put to the test on just how far they'll go to make sure justice is served, and Holmes' shocking past is revealed in the process. Will Watson solve his first case without Holmes' help? Will Cara Applegate and Holmes fall for each other? Will Watson become a criminal? Read on to find out!

OUR CAST OF CHARACTERS, SO TO SPEAK:

Sherlock Holmes- we don't need to explain

Watson- ditto

Penelope Pumpernickel: Holmes' "friend"

Moriarty- Holmes' archenemy, whom we all know and loathe

Ashworth- Moriarty's henchman

Butterscotch: another henchman of Moriarty

Jasmine Ducky- Moriarty's right-hand man _woman_

Cara Applegate- rich "client" in "distress"

Grimesby Roylott- a deceased criminal who was skilled in the art of bending steel pokers into knots


End file.
